


I Have Trusted The Dark

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blindfolds, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Painplay, Restraints, Sensory Deprivation, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28645716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Crowley is no better at asking for things than Aziraphale. But freedom has given them both the opportunity to learn.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 300
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	I Have Trusted The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for [this piece of waxplay art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20674328/chapters/65204893) by doorwaytoparadise. It's a theme I hadn't done before and I really wanted to make something for it. Thank you for letting me run with it.

Crowley doesn't say anything, he just slinks in close and stands by Aziraphale's knee, waiting for the angel to acknowledge him, or not.

He's never been very good at asking for things. He thinks he'd make a mess of it if he tried to explain this, he'd get it all wrong, make it sound like something he shouldn't have. Aziraphale knows him well enough by now that he doesn't ask Crowley what he wants either, he doesn't make him say the words.

The angel's hand - the one that had been casually holding a spread of pages open - slips down and cups the back of his book, carefully pushing it shut. He always remembers his place, he can always flip them open to exactly where he left off. Aziraphale sets it down on the small table next to him and looks up at Crowley, his small reading glasses perched low on his nose. Whatever he sees on Crowley's face makes him lift a hand and draw them free, fold them neatly and set them down next to him too.

"Promise me you'll say the words if it's too much," Aziraphale says quietly. It's not a question, it's something that Aziraphale needs for this to happen. He needs to know that Crowley understands his own limits, that settling himself doesn't slide into punishing himself. Crowley manages a nod for the angel, an impatient twitch of movement.

Aziraphale leans forward and slowly folds a hand around Crowley's wrist, a curl of warm skin and strong fingers. They squeeze gently, then slide down to briefly grip his own, before falling away.

It's a small gesture, but it's also permission and encouragement. Crowley gives a hissing exhale of relief, he catches the bottom of his shirt and strips it over his head, drops it behind him without looking. His belt is pulled open almost before it comes to rest on the floor, jeans and underwear at his thighs before Aziraphale has made space beside him for Crowley's bony knees. He sinks into it, straight-backed and silent, though he doesn't bend, he doesn't fold himself into the angel like a supplicant, that isn't what this is about. Instead he waits and he listens.

Aziraphale lays two fingers on the table beside him, where next to his discarded book there are now three items he'd miracled into existence. There's a question in the angel's gesture, Crowley considers it for a second.

"Candle," he decides eventually.

Aziraphale reaches out and curls a hand around it, lifting it and banishing the other options. It's a thick, sturdy white thing with two days worth of burn at least. The angel leans down and holds it where Crowley can see. He knows exactly what's expected of him. He raises a hand and lights the wick with a brush of dark-nailed fingers - the flame briefly stretching out as he draws away, the yellow curl of it hot and steady.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says, always happy when Crowley makes a choice, and something in him warms and settles. The angel sets the burning candle on the table so the wax can heat, then he lowers a hand to curve around the side of Crowley's face, thumb stroking his jaw. It's a point of sensation that stops the sharp, restless twitches rolling up and down his spine. "I know you like to be still for this, that you like to be quiet." Aziraphale's fingers draw away and raise to his own throat, to pluck carefully at his bow tie, loosening the knot and pulling it open. "Turn around for me please."

Crowley slides around on his knees, facing the doorway of the back room, where the silence seeps in.

"Make yourself comfortable," Aziraphale insists. "I want you to be comfortable." There's a whisper of sound that Crowley knows is the angel stripping material from around his neck, before the strange warmth of it, thick with the angel's scent, is sliding carefully over his open eyes. "I know it's hard for you to stop looking, for you to stop thinking, for you to shut the world out for a while, but you've done so much more for me over the years, without me ever needing to ask."

Crowley grunts a protest, because doing things for the angel was never work, it was always a blissful moment away from the demands and the spite and the constancy of hell. But Aziraphale shushes him, hands sliding down to rub at the back of Crowley's neck.

There's a creak as the angel's weight shifts in the chair and then the soft pressure of a kiss just below his ear.

"You've been afforded few opportunities to be still of late, to just let yourself exist for a while. Please don't think that it's ever a hardship for me to help you."

Crowley could say the same, he could counter that Aziraphale has been wound just as tightly as him, a holy spring in need of a little loosening. But there's a soft tap on his shoulder and Crowley packs the words away. He lets himself shift backwards, lets Aziraphale lean down and gather his wrists - a second strip of fabric pulling them together and slowly tightening until his arms are held fast behind him, knuckles brushing the curve of his arse and the soles of his feet. The angel gently squeezes his fingers in reassurance before leaning away.

The shop is noticeably colder for Crowley now, he can feel the prickle of the air on his bare skin, but that won't matter soon.

When Aziraphale's hand slides around the back of his neck he makes a quiet noise of assent, feels strong fingers gently grip the muscle and rub again, easing tension and warming the skin. Before they relax into a hold, thumb stroking slowly up and down, as if indulging in the feel of Crowley, in the physical reality of him.

It still surprises Crowley sometimes, how easily Aziraphale reaches out now that he can.

"I know it's not always easy to tell me what you want. I know I can ask too many questions. I like to know things, to plan every step in advance, where you like to let yourself -"

_Fall_ , Crowley thinks.

But Aziraphale doesn't say the word, and it's clear he hadn't intended to brush so close to something raw. Though that's a wound so old it's petrified now, the sinew under it hard and tough. 

Aziraphale simply massages the long length of Crowley's neck for a while, thumbs pressing and stroking at the tight cords and fine muscle. The motion is rhythmic and soothing, the sound of the angel breathing a quiet companion to the sensation. Crowley finds himself less focused on the itch beneath his skin.

He hears the book open again, the gentle creak of the spine, the fluttering pass of the pages as Aziraphale finds his place.

The hand continues its path, drifting upwards into his hair, that warm pull of fingers sliding through it, pushing strands the wrong way in slow prickles of sensation. Crowley knows he's being settled, that Aziraphale is urging stillness. Crowley's spent far too long trying to please the angel to be anything but weak to that. He can't fault Aziraphale for knowing his weaknesses after all this time, only him though, only ever him. He thinks having his own tricks used against him should smart more than it does. But he can't be angry about it, he's proud of the angel, he's so proud.

He eventually hears Aziraphale lift the candle, hears the faint sound of his clothes brushing the upholstery of the chair as he leans in and holds the thing over Crowley's right shoulder.

The first spill is small. A quick drop and then a trail of stinging heat, the wave of it flowing outward from the splash of wax he knows now adorns his shoulder, the steady spread of it a slow ache the depth of which always surprises him. His corporation twitches under the burn, before it fades and leaves that warmth of sensitivity behind, that throb of red beneath the skin.

The candle is set down, and Aziraphale's large hand moves through his hair again, rubs at the back of his neck, thumb pressing behind Crowley's ear in slow circles. He makes soft and meaningless noises until Crowley's skin cools, prickling in the chill of the air. The darkness behind the blindfold is still, nothing for his eyes to focus on no matter where he looks. There's something soothing in that, in the futility of it.

He hears six pages turn before the book is set aside again. The candle lifted.

The wax hits bare skin, spills in a fast-cooling trail down the back of his shoulder, spots hitting the blade of it, the heat coring down and then blooming outwards. It's a wave that his senses flow instinctively towards, as if he can be protected, or defended. The darkness makes it sharper, the sound of it spattering down heavier than he's expecting, a few drops meeting the rug beneath him. The air tastes like paper and wax and the familiar wash of the angel's cologne. Crowley breathes it in, breathes it in and shivers for more of it.

The hand in his hair is stronger this time, dragging hair back and forth, massaging and stroking until Crowley settles, relaxes, hums something like contentment. The warmth reaches his chest and expands there.

Aziraphale returns to the book. Crowley sits, and he feels where his skin is pink and sensitive, where it's trapped under soft presses of wax, where it's bare and raw and aching for a touch. From Aziraphale's hands, or from heat.

Sometimes they feel the same.

Seven pages and the candle returns, offers a sharp, stinging line down the muscle of his chest, then across his collarbone like a bite. There's another down the subtle curve of his spine. He twitches and gasps and feels the heat of it spread, gnaw gently beneath the skin - and then afterwards, the hand in his hair, alternating between hard and soft, feels like dreaming.

Crowley can hear his own heartbeat, strange and slow inside the meaty cage of his corporation's chest. A reminder that he's flesh and blood and bone here. He's been hurt so much worse than this in his long life, but the hurt always ends, the pain always fades. His wounds are temporary. They're not meant to last. The sensations are brief and sharp, ripples in his body's senses that somehow ground him to the world.

The things that hurt with no wounds to show for it. They're the same. They can be the same. If he lets them.

He can taste Aziraphale in every breath.

Five pages have been turned. The well of hot wax growing with every gentle rasp of paper, every slow turn that sounds like a tear - though he knows Aziraphale would never.

Seven.

Nine.

Twelve.

The book closes and he can feel his blood moving through his veins, the rasp of the fabric beneath his knees, the smooth-soft brush of the bow tie over his open eyes. They've never liked to shut. They've never stayed that way. Crowley is always looking. Except now he sees nothing at all.

He breathes through his teeth as Aziraphale sends that burning trail down the skin of his chest. He feels the hot spike of his nipple heat and then throb sharply. He feels the drops that are almost cool before they hit his naked thighs, barely a touch of warmth on the skin there. He feels the quivering jolt of his own hips - to press up or pull away, or both. His fingers clench where they're pulled behind him, the hard knuckles of his thumbs digging into his back.

It's always sweeter than he remembers.

His right side is trailed in wax, the burn of it fading to an ache and then fading to nothing. But he can feel the pattern of it, stiff like scar tissue, pulling at the hair and the skin in overlapping, broken lines. Someone could press hot spikes into those lines, drive them in and crack Crowley all the way open. Show his insides, where he's scales and hellfire. Scales and hellfire all the way through - no, that's a lie, he's pretty sure there are veins of gold cored through him, too deep to pull out.

Aziraphale.

Crack him open and that's what the angel would find. Hot veins of gold.

"Aziraphale," he hisses, unable to hold it in.

The chair creaks behind him, the weight of the angel leaning in to press a warm kiss to his temple.

"Would you like to stop?" Aziraphale asks him.

Crowley shakes his head, realises that won't be enough. "No," he says, and his voice comes out rough, only half enough air to speak.

Aziraphale kisses him again, and the sweetness is a different kind of heat, a different spread of sensation. One that sinks all the way to his bones.

The angel doesn't lift the book again.

There's a gentle splash to the sensitive line of his collarbone, another over his shoulder, sliding down his arm in a cooling spill that catches and pulls in the hair. It's warm and it bites, and Crowley drifts in the heat and cold of it. 

He doesn't register for long minutes that Aziraphale has set the candle down, is now rubbing the back of his neck and speaking very quietly. Crowley can feel the slow vibration in his chest that tells him he's still hissing, and probably has been for a while. He makes himself stop, and when he takes a deep breath he can feel the pull and crack of wax that runs like stiff decoration down his chest and back. The way it splits and breaks, small pieces falling away. The throbbing under his skin is no longer from the heat. His cock sits heavy where it's stiffened and risen, resting on the rounded curve of his balls.

"Aziraphale?" His tongue isn't entirely human, but the angel hasn't minded that for a long time.

"I'm here," the angel says simply. "I'm always here." Fingers pull through Crowley's hair, and this time it's not soothing, it's not an anchor to ground him into his own flesh. It's a temptation to pull him out of it, to let Aziraphale prise him open and crawl his way inside. The beautiful hot sting of angel underneath his skin.

He turns his head, presses his face into the hard curve of Aziraphale's knee. He's never quite worked out how to ask for this either. But maybe that's because Aziraphale lets him be a coward, never making him say the words, never forcing him to be honest, to stumble through an explanation that will gut him, for all that it'll give him what he wants. What he's always wanted.

The warmth of a palm curves round his face, the thumb stroking his mouth.

"Come here, come here and let me touch you."

He can still see nothing when Aziraphale draws him up and into his lap blind, settles him on the wide spread of his thighs while his hands work at the fly of his trousers. Crowley's own hands clenching and twisting at the base of his spine as he feels and hears material being pushed aside.

His buttocks are spread, oil smoothed down the valley of his arse, to the sensitive tightness of his balls and perineum, before finally being pressed into the twitching flutter of his hole. A steady push of two fingers that has his mouth dropping open in a moan and his thighs flexing open wider. It's slow but determined, a steady and constant pressure that leaves his rim burning in a way he sighs and aches and bears down for.

"Tell me what you feel," Aziraphale asks him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley protests, because he can't - he can't talk as well.

"Please." The word is offered quietly. The steady pushes into him slow and indulgent.

This isn't for Crowley, this is Aziraphale's desire and that's what makes him drag words up his throat and force them out.

"I feel greedy." He rocks back into the slow penetration, the rim of his arse stretching hotly for Aziraphale's thick fingers. "Tight where the wax is, skin still feels warm underneath. Stings where you're - ah fuck - stings where you're fingering me."

Aziraphale's fingers still, but Crowley presses back, encourages them deeper.

"No, I like it, don't stop." It's as close to a plea as he'll get. "The blindfold is smooth, soft, smells like you, feels more expensive than it looks."

"Cheeky," Aziraphale says, but there's more than a hint of gentle amusement to the word. His fingers slip free, return as a trio and Crowley's thighs widen, the stretch of his body pulling wax from his skin in prickling little tugs as he pushes down, fucks himself slowly. He can feel the tiny pieces scattering on his bare thighs and the bunched folds of Aziraphale's trousers.

Every part of him feels eager for it, almost too sensitive, his whole body trembling. He knows there's going to be so much more than this if he gives Aziraphale what he wants.

"My knees ache from where you've had me on the floor," he rattles out, bits and pieces of sensations to feed to the angel. "Hair on my chest is pulling every time I move, but it's good, it's good. I can feel how warm you are, can feel your thighs tensing every time you shift under me. M'sensitive from where you've been dragging my hair about, I can still feel your fingers, angel. I can still -" A push grazes his prostate and the hot stab of pleasure turns his words into broken pieces. 

He can hear the angel breathing, fast and deep, and he wonders if he's watching all of this. If his eyes are fixed on Crowley's chest, the redness of stung skin, the trails of scar tissue in wax, nipples hot and smeared with it. The stretch of his open thighs and the jolting bounce of his dick as he works himself on the angel's fingers.

He's watching, of course he is. 

He wants this as much as Crowley does, he just has more patience, he likes to watch, he likes to do this for Crowley, he likes to be needed - it's not that he doesn't want Crowley just as much. It's not that. Aziraphale has fallen apart for him too, and he's fucking stunning when he does.

"Angel, please -"

He doesn't have the request out before Aziraphale's fingers are slipping free and he's being pulled forward, the angel's cock repositioned to nudge where Crowley has been opened out with slick pushes. It's still barely enough, the wide stretch of it burning in a long beautiful wave as the angel urges him down - drives himself in. The desperate jut of Crowley's own cock bobbing in a way that feels like a constant tug of pleasure. His mouth drops open, a moan dragging its way out of his throat.

Aziraphale's hands fold at waist and thigh, tighten when Crowley barely pauses once the angel's all the way inside before lifting his hips and sinking again.

"Look at you, you're beautiful."

He's not, fuck he's not, he's a mess, arms tugged messily behind him, hair sticking up under the blindfold, his skin splashed red and white, wax crumbling and falling from him with every roll of the angel's hips. He's all angles and joints and hard edges, but he still can't help the way the words make his thighs tighten and spread outwards. The way it makes him catch a breath before a protest falls free.

"M'not."

Aziraphale draws him in, kisses his cheek, his jaw, the long bend of his throat, the round of his shoulder where wax still pulls at the skin. It's so soft, so gentle, where the steady snaps of the angel's hips are hard, burying him all the way inside. The hand that cards soothingly through his hair is nothing like the one that has fingers dug deep into the flesh of his hip. So many beautiful conflicting sensations. Crowley's body feels tight and hot, and the blunt, stabbing nudges of pleasure make his thighs shake.

"Tell me?" Aziraphale asks again.

"I can't," Crowley grates out, the pushes of his hips searching for the last thing he needs, that last filthy grind, or rub, or pound to his prostate that's going to shove him over. "M'too close, angel, I can't, fuck, fuck."

"One thing," Aziraphale says gently. "Just one thing, tell me one thing you feel."

"I'm going to come," Crowley chokes out, resistant. "That's what I feel, that's it - ah."

"Just one," Aziraphale breathes against the side of his face. "Just for me."

Crowley shudders at the plea, tries desperately, claws, scrabbles for a sensation, a feeling, a thought.

"Your hands on me, the way you touch me, the way you hold everything together - while it's breaking." While he's breaking, cracking open, splintering between the angel's hands. The thought of it is too much, leaves him drowning in a pleasure that's sharp and hot and devastating. Crowley feels his balls pull up, feels the hot, twitching splashes of his own orgasm that he knows are making a mess of the angel's shirt and waistcoat, that are dribbling down the line of his cock and into his pubic hair, flecks landing on his thighs. He feels all of it, moaning while his body clenches and shakes, his cock swaying and sticky for a moment as Aziraphale gently fucks him through it, lighting every nerve that had just gone haywire on fire.

Crowley can't do anything but take it, fingers clawing in the material of Aziraphale's trousers that are bunched beneath him. He feels the angel's hands move to his hips, catch tight on him, before he's moving Crowley's lax body more intently into his lap, fucking up into his squeezing hole while he moans and shivers. It's only a dozen thrusts before Crowley is dragged down hard and then held still, Aziraphale's hips grinding in final, messy desperate thrusts, the slickness of his own release filling Crowley's body. 

Listening to the angel's sighed noises of pleasure, his breathy moans of satisfaction, Crowley's cock gives a desperate, hopeful twitch. But he's content to lay slumped against Aziraphale's chest, to pull his thighs in and use them to squeeze the angel's waist. He lets them stay joined for a moment, feels the slick wetness Aziraphale has left in him and finds himself strangely possessive of it.

"Do you feel better, darling?" Aziraphale murmurs into his ear.

Crowley knows the angel expects something verbal from him, even though he'd rather just float in this moment for a bit.

"Yeah," he offers. "I'm good."

Aziraphale gently slides his bow tie free, and Crowley's treated to the image of a dishevelled angel who immediately draws him into a kiss, while his wrists are untied and then massaged gently.

"You are beautiful," Aziraphale tells him, a quiet sort of insistence to the words. "So unutterably beautiful in your pleasure. Every moment with you is a gift."

"Hush," Crowley says, though not forcefully. It may not be part of the game, but he knows it makes Aziraphale happy. It makes Aziraphale happy and Crowley can suffer a little for that.


End file.
